There was a poor girl who was ill of a consumption. She did not
suffer much, yet was pretty certain that she should never get well.
She was very happy, however, for she had many beautiful thoughts to
keep her company in the sick room.
One day a good man came to visit her, and told her of a school in
Canada, to teach colored people who had been slaves, and had run
away from their masters. You know that in Canada American slaves
become free English subjects.
He told her that he was trying to get money to pay teachers in this
school.
The poor girl was very much interested, wished much to contribute
something, and felt grieved at her poverty. Presently her face
lighted up with a sad smile. "I have," said she, "one thing of value
which I could give you, but," (and she looked very sad,) "it would
be hard parting with it. My mother gave it to me." She went to a
drawer, and took out of it a gold necklace. Then, as if she were
talking to herself, she said, "How sweetly my mother smiled upon me
when she put this around my neck! I cannot wear it now, my neck is
so thin, and is always covered up. She would wish me to give it for
this purpose, I know. Yes, she would like I should do it. But then I
cannot bear to give it away. It was hers; she wore it herself. I
shall not keep it a great while longer, at any rate. I can desire my
uncle to give it to the school when I am gone." She covered her face
with her hands, but you could see her tears through her thin,
emaciated fingers.
Her friend, who had told her about the school, simply to please and
interest her, begged her not to think any more of giving away the
necklace, and spoke to her of something else.
"No," said she, "I cannot keep it, now that it has come into my mind
that I ought to give it to you for the school. You must take it.
Forgive my weakness; the thought of my dear departed mother brings
the tears to my eyes."
"Think again, then, before you give away this precious necklace,"
said the good man.
She put the necklace into his hand, and said, as she did so, "I have
thought of it again, and I have decided to give it."
He took it, and left the generous-hearted girl, praying that she
might recover, but fearing that he should never see her again.
Not long after this, in a steamboat, he met a gentleman with whom he
had much conversation upon various subjects; among others the
institution for the instruction of the poor runaways. He mentioned
among other things this poor girl's gift, and her grief at parting
with her mother's gold necklace. "I hated," said he, "to take it.
She will not stay here long, and her pleasures are very few." He
mentioned also the name of the town in New Hampshire where she
lived.
"That is my native place," said the gentleman to whom he was
relating the story. "Will you let me see the necklace?"
"Certainly," said the missionary, and he took it from his pocket.
"What sum of money shall you obtain for this necklace?"
"I have had it weighed," said he, "and I shall get so much money for
it," naming the sum.
"Are you willing to sell it to me for that sum?"
"Certainly; that is all I can obtain for it."
The bargain was concluded. The stranger paid the sum. Then, putting
the necklace into his own pocket, he said, "She shall have it for a
new year's gift."
Now let us, on the first of January, visit the poor sick girl again.
Early in the morning, some one hands her a little parcel--she opens
it, and there is her precious necklace, the gift of her dear mother
in the heavenly land. It is accompanied by a short note in which the
writer begs her not to part with the necklace again while she lives,
but to consider it her own to do as she pleases with it at her
death.
The stranger, who had purchased the necklace, and sent it back to
the poor girl, knew the true value of riches, and understood and
enjoyed the luxury of doing good, of making the poor and the
sorrowful rejoice. He was the same man who planned the dinner."
After tea, Mrs. Chilton took out her manuscript book.
"The story I shall read," said she, "is a very painful one, but
sadly true. If it makes you very unhappy, you must try to let it
save you from committing the fault which was so severely punished.
All the essential facts are true, as I shall read them to you.
"IT IS ONLY A TRIFLE."
"Be sure, my son," said Mr. Pratt, as he left his counting room, in
Philadelphia, "be sure that you send that money to Mr. Reid to-day;
direct it carefully, and see that all is done in proper form and
order."
"Yes, sir," replied George, "I will."
George fully intended to obey implicitly. He was, in the main,
desirous to do right; but he had one great fault. When he had a
small duty to perform, he was apt to say and think, "O, that is only
a trifle. Why should we lay so much stress on trifles?" He would
often say, when any one found fault with him for the neglect of a
small duty, "I am sure it is only a trifle."
George, as soon as he had finished something he was about, wrote the
letter according to the directions given him, carefully enclosed the
money in it, nicely folded and sealed it. Just as he was preparing
to direct it, a young man opened the door of the counting room in
great haste, and begged him to go with him that moment, to speak to
some one who was then passing.
"I can direct and carry the letter," said George's younger brother;
"I know to whom it is to go, and I can send it just as well as you."
George had a slight feeling in his heart that he ought not to leave
this letter to any one to direct; but his brother again said, "I
should think I could do such a trifling thing as that; I can surely
direct a letter, though I cannot write one yet."
Frank was the younger apprentice, and was anxious to get forward and
do what George did.
"Well," said George, "you may do it, but be sure you do it right.
John Reid, you know, is the name;" and he went with his companion.
"It is only a trifle," he said to himself, as he remembered his
father's charge. "I have done all that is really important. It is of
little consequence who directs and carries the letter." So he chased
away the slight cloud that hung over his mind as he left the
counting room with his friend.
These slight clouds that rise in the soul's horizon, so prophetic,
so full of mercy or of terror as we regard or slight them! "Why do
we not learn their meaning? Why are they not ever messengers of love
and peace to us? Had George stopped and considered, perhaps he would
not have done as he did, perhaps he would not have called this duty
a trifle, and would not have left the counting room till he had
performed every tittle of his father's command.
The letter was directed and sent. Frank did as well as he knew how.
When George returned, he asked, "Have you directed the letter to Mr.
John Reid?"
"Yes, I have, and carried it to the office."
"Did you enclose that money to Mr. Reid, George?" asked his father,
when he next saw him.
"Yes, sir," George replied, with a slight hesitation, which,
however, he soon got over; "for," said he to himself, "I enclosed
the money carefully; what does it matter whether Frank or I directed
the letter?" So he spoke out freely to his father.
"All right, father; the letter is on its way to Ohio."
Unfortunately his father had not noticed his hesitation, was
satisfied, and asked no further questions.
Again George checked the monitions of his conscience. Again he said
to himself, "It's only a trifle." He had yet to learn that no duty
is a trifle.
Weeks passed, and there was no acknowledgment of the money. At last
a letter arrived from Mr. Reid to Mr. Pratt, requesting him, if
convenient, to pay the two hundred dollars promised to him some
weeks before.
Mr. Reid was a poor man, to whom two hundred dollars was an
important sum.
Mr. Pratt again questioned his son, and was again assured that the
money had been sent, and wrote to Mr. Reid accordingly, advising him
to inquire at the post office.
There happened to be a young man in the office, by the name of Harry
Brown, whose mother was a widow. She was poor, and a stranger in the
town. Her son had obtained his place on account of his quick
intelligence, and because he could also write a very good hand.
Strong suspicions fell upon him. He was questioned about the letter,
and at last Mr. Reid accused him of the theft.
The young man's indignation was uncontrollable; he turned white with
anger; he could not speak; he stammered and clenched his fists, and
at last burst into tears and left the office.
All this was taken for the agony of detected guilt and neither the
postmaster nor Mr. Reid attempted to stop him, for neither of them
wished to have him punished, and they hoped to recover the money by
gentler means.
We will now change the scene. Let us enter this small, neat cottage.
There are but two rooms on the floor. One is kitchen and parlor, the
other a bed room. A sort of ladder in one corner intimates that in
the small attic is also a sleeping place. A small table is spread
for two people; it is very clean and nice, but every thing that you
see indicates poverty. An old woman, with a sweet but sorrowful
countenance, sits by the small window, looking anxiously out of it
for some one who you might suppose was to share her simple meal with
her, which stood nicely covered up at the fire, awaiting his
arrival. She is talking to herself.
"One treasure is yet left me in this world--my noble, beautiful,
brave son. God bless him; for him I am willing to live. There he
comes; how fast he runs! but how red and heated he looks! What is
the matter, Harry? what has happened?" she exclaimed, as he entered;
"are you sick?"
"Yes, Mother, and I shall never be well again. I have been accused
of stealing, and Mr. Reid and the postmaster both believe it. I
cannot live here any longer. I have just come from the recruiting
office; I have enlisted for the Mexican war, and I hope I shall be
shot; I go the day after to-morrow. I will never be seen here again.
To think that any one should dare to accuse me of theft! Why did I
not knock him down? I hate the world, I hate all mankind, I hate
life, I want to die. If it were not for you, Mother, I believe I
should kill myself. O Mother, Mother! how can I live?" And the poor
fellow laid his head in his mother's lap and wept bitterly.
The poor mother--she spoke not, she did not weep; she laid her hands
upon her son's head, and looked up through the thin roof of her poor
cottage, far, far into the everlasting heavens, where alone are
peace and hope to be found. In her deep agony she called upon the
Almighty for aid. She looked like a marble image of despair.
"I must prepare to go," at last her son said; "I have enlisted, and
I must be ready. "What will you do with yourself, Mother?"
"Go with you, my child. Wherever you go, there I go too. I can cook
for the camp. You have done wrong, my son, in enlisting as a
soldier; why not come first to me? Your innocence will yet be
proved. Why were you so rash? All might have yet been well with us."
"I cannot bear it, Mother; I must go."
"Then I go with you; I will never desert you."
"But O, you will be killed with fatigue and exposure. Mother, dear
Mother, stay till I can get you a new home."
"I go, my son, where you go," said his mother; "my only home is with
you."
In two days their few possessions were sold, and they were gone.
We will now return to the counting room where our TRUE story began.
Some months had passed; the father and son are there. "George," said
Mr. Pratt, "I cannot but fear you made some mistake about that
letter. Money is seldom stolen out of letters. Were you very
particular about the name and place in your direction?"
"The truth is, Sir, that Frank directed the letter; I wrote and
folded and sealed it; but just as I was going to direct it, Harry
Flint called me to speak to some one, and I let Frank direct it; but
I told him to be sure to direct it to Mr. John Reid, and I know he
did so, just as well as if I had seen it."
The father looked much displeased. "You did wrong, George, after my
particular orders."
"Why, Father, I am sure it was of no importance which of us did it.
That was only a trifle, I am sure. I told Frank the name, and he
knows where Mr. Reid lives. I should not think you would blame me
for this--"
"I do blame you very much. You should not have left this to Frank. I
charged you to be very careful. This was your own duty, and you
should have performed it yourself. Your neglect will most likely
cost me two hundred dollars, for I shall send the money to Mr. Reid;
he of course is not to lose it. You cannot be sure that Frank
directed the letter correctly; he is not used to the work."
George began to feel that it was not a trifle to leave another
person to direct a letter of importance; he felt very sorry at the
thought of losing his father's money. Poor fellow! he had a worse
pain than this to endure.
The next morning, when the letters came from the post office, there
was one from Mr. Reid. The missing letter had at last arrived, and
the two hundred dollars were in it. The letter had been misdirected.
There was a mistake in the name of the place. The letter had been
sent to Washington, whence he had just received it, as the person
whose office it is to read these letters knew him personally, and so
could correct the mistake. He then related the sad story of the
clerk and his poor mother. He added that he went to the poor woman's
house the very day that he left the town, intending to satisfy his
mind upon the question of her son's guilt, of which he began to
doubt--intending, if he found the young man innocent, to take him
back into the office, and if not, to try to induce him to restore
the money, and go, to recover his character, to some other place, to
which he would have helped him to remove. He was too late. He found
the house empty. "I pity the person," he said, "who misdirected that
letter--he was the unconscious cause of the ruin of two excellent
beings. We may blame the young man's violence, and may call him
foolish and passionate; yet it was a deep hatred of even the
appearance of sin and shame that made him do so mad an action as to
enlist in a wicked war."
Mr. Pratt now read this letter to his son. George covered his face
to hide his shame and sorrow; his heart was ready to break with
agony. He groaned aloud. He spoke not one word.
George was suffering in silence the bitterest of all pains which a
good mind can endure,--that of being the cause of misery to others,
through one's own wrong-doing. After a few moments, he started up
and exclaimed, "I must send word to the poor fellow that the money
is found and his innocence proved; let me do what I can to repair
the evil I have caused. If I write to the postmaster and tell him
the story, he will take the poor fellow back again. I have some
money of my own, Father, to pay for the travelling expenses of the
boy and his mother. All perhaps may yet be right. I can work. I will
do any thing for them. Poor Harry Brown--so proud and so honest! O,
Father! I hate myself. But how shall I send him word? the post is
not certain; let me think. Bill Smith said he was going to the war,
if he could get money enough for his journey. He would take my
letter. I'll be after him, and get him off in no time."
Away flew George; he gave Bill Smith the money, told him the story,
and sent him off for that very night, George then wrote to the
postmaster, and implored him to write immediately to Harry, and
offer him again the place in the office. George went to bed with a
heavy heart, still with the hope that poor Harry had not been
killed.
Now let us follow Harry and his old mother to Mexico. Many weeks
have passed since we left George mourning his fault, and sending up
prayers for the life of poor Harry. It is a few days after a battle.
On the ground, in the corner of a small tent, lies a poor soldier.
Bandages stained with blood are lying about. The poor sufferer is
very pale, and his face shows marks of pain. An old woman, whose
face is full of anxious love, sits by his side and holds his hand.
The young man lifts the old withered hand to his lips and kisses it;
he looks up through the thin canvas of his tent, and says, "Thank
God, dear Mother, that you are here with me now to take care of me,
else I think I should die. Forgive my rashness; if I live will yet
be a good son to you. I knew was not a thief, and that ought to have
been enough for me. I was wrong to be so angry, and to forget you,
whom I ought to have staid by and taken care of, as I promised
father I would. Forgive me, dear Mother. Perhaps I shall be a better
man with one leg than I was with two."
While the poor fellow, who had lost his leg the first day he went to
battle, was slowly uttering these words, the tears were running fast
down the hollow cheeks of his old mother, but gentle, quiet tears,
as though the heart of her who shed them was resigned and peaceful.
"I thank God for your life, my son. Your fighting days are over;
they have been short; but usefulness and happiness are yet before
you, though you go through life maimed. I shall yet see you smiling
and happy again in our cottage, your innocence proved, your place
restored, and friends all around you."
"How can that be?" said Harry; "there is only my word and character
as evidence of my honesty. I cannot go back to the old place--never,
never, Mother. What shall I do? Better die than live disgraced."
"Have no fear, Harry; I have none. I am sure all will be well, and
your honesty proved. So go to sleep, as the surgeon directed. Have
faith; you have shown courage." His mother smoothed the clothes over
him, and gently stroked his hand, and he was silent, and fell
asleep.
Presently, the surgeon looked in. He was a kind-hearted man, and
knew their story. He said softly, "When the boy wakes I have some
news for him that will do him more good than I can."
Harry, who was just waking, started and exclaimed, "What news? tell
me this minute! is the money found?"
"Come, Mr. Gunpowder, keep quiet, if you please, or you'll not hear
any thing from me."
"Yes, yes; I am as quiet as a lamb, only be quick. Tell me the
news."
"Well, here are two letters that a great six foot chap has brought,
not for your lambship, Mr. Harry, but for your good mother, who
takes things like a rational being."
He gave the letters to the mother and left the tent, saying with a
smile, "Don't be too happy."
The letter from the postmaster was to ask Harry's pardon for the
injustice, and to offer the place in the office. "There is no one,"
it concluded, "I could trust as I can you."